You may ask, why words? What power can they have over the ones that rule over the Origin System?

It is simple really.

What are concepts but for actions born from words?

When the Seven convened to bring judgment down on Archimedian Perintol and his constructs for The Plan, I used guile and old rivalries as weapons, striking with precision at the points I knew would bring forth the most reaction in my favor.

In doing such, I altered the course of the decision. All I had to do is make them think that it was their decision to allow the project to continue.

We know better, don't we?

All those centuries of experience, and those fools on the council never saw the truth behind my actions, too wrapped up in their own affairs. This is what you must learn to guard against, to protect yourself from, as there will always be others seeking to destroy you.

Perception and context, the tools of the hidden trade.

Tuvul saw what he wanted to see, a man, humbled, beaten, humiliated, never knowing that this was the plan, as they were the ones that lacked the context of the exchange.

Their own perceptions blinded them to the truth, of what I didn't say.

Of how I was the one to give strength to the Archimedian, just a few whispered words, of what to say and do.

The strength of an army may be absolute, but if you know the right words to whisper in the ears of an ally or an enemy…

Then you can control the very fates themselves.


-Worm-In-Waiting-

There was no way in getting around it, I was procrastinating.

The last few bits of 'homework,' if one could call it that, that I had been given during my… break, was done. I had done enough food prep for the next several days, and the apartment was clean enough that the only way it could get any better was if I started painting.

Which I was seriously considering. After all, when I took into account that it was unlikely dad or me could be going back to the house for a few more weeks, if not months, the idea of making this place feel somewhat like home was appealing.

It was far smaller than our real home, only having two bedrooms towards the back, with an open floorplan for the kitchen and breakfast nook. The living room doubled as the entryway, holding a smallish couch and a TV mounted on the wall. Neither of us were able to bring any of our own furniture the rooms were so small, so we made do with what the place came with.

Still, it was nice for the PRT to foot the bill for us, even if it was a blatant attempt to try and get on our good side after what their mistakes cost us.

I didn't have a set day to get to my destination, just that they would have their doors open to me to come in at any time, starting today. The only restriction was that, for legal reasons, I needed to show up within five days, or they would either show up themselves and bring me to them.

Whichever came first.

I cast one last looked around the room. The TV was off; it was rarely used. There were reports from my father about the DWA that I had straightened up on the breakfast nook table, the dishes were done and drying, the few bits and bobs that helped change the room from feeling like a hotel room to a place where someone could call home were tidied up. A picture here, shoes and jacket there, all were set into places, if not their proper ones.

It didn't feel like a home to me, more like a gilded cage. We could leave, but there were possible dangers involved until we'd dealt with what happened.

There was more I could do to the place, I could just say that I'd lost track of time. But I knew that I needed to face this specter hanging over me, and my dad said that he would be there on his lunch break today so I couldn't really back out on him. He was going to take a longer one to deal with this and had promised to take me to Fuglys after it was all said and done.

Against my will, keys were found, shoes were placed on feet, and a jacket was grabbed. It was windy in Brockton today, part of a mild storm that was approaching later in the week.

I did not look back as I left.


Our PRT leased apartment was just outside of the downtown area, where other several story buildings not given to offices or the higher-end apartments were. On one hand, its location was closer to dads work office, as the streets were faster to travel through down here, on the other, it meant more people.

I stuck to the stairs going up or down, even though our building was six stories. It was better for me to avoid people using the elevator.

On the flip side, it did help out with my semi-daily jogging exercise that the doctors recommended to help keep my mind off things. It also helped out with dad's worry, I was far less likely to get attacked this close to downtown. The cop cars were more common here, as were working lights.

A bit of wind tugged at me as I exited the building, shying away from an older woman entering as subtly as I could. The jacket was a good idea, hints of dark clouds were gathering over the distant ocean, visible only in-between the gaps of the tall buildings.

Here, unlike where my home was, the sidewalks were lacking in cracks every few feet. The street posts and lamps were unmarred by graffiti, only having the occasional sticker or remnants of a poster.

I didn't meet many people on my way towards the closest bus stop. I could walk the distance I needed to go, it wasn't that far compared to what I'd been slowly building up to over the last few weeks. But I didn't want the stress of worrying even more about my appearance to be added on top of the meeting as well.

There was a bit of a problem later on, however. Because it was so close to the lunch rush, there weren't many people around the building walking on the streets, so the issues began at the bus stop.

Because it was so close to the lunch rush, this meant that the stop had a cluster of people waiting, and I was almost hoping that the next bus was mostly full so that I didn't have to get on board with them.

I debated with myself for a moment, standing separate from the crowd, before moving closer. One or two of the persons there glanced over at me, likely wondering what I had stopped for, before turning back, uninterested.

It was a relief, and a showing that despite what my feelings were now for the PRT and Protectorate, that they had managed to keep my identity hidden.

After all, if the crowd knew that I was the girl responsible for destroying Winslow, then they would either be all over me, or run the other way.

With the PRTs help, dad managed to get me some pretty good hospital treatment, as well as a number of trips to a psychologist for therapy. Not that I really needed it, most of my memories of That Day were blurred at the end, more dreamlike than anything else.

Though Mr. Rieper was cold as a fish in terms of a personality, he was very good at getting me to start moving on from what had happened at Winslow. Intimidating, blunt, and I considered him to be a psychopath at first until he brought up having to care for a daughter, he helped me get over the fact that Winslow was my fault.

No, wait, Bad Taylor, it wasn't my fault any more than if Clockblocker used his power on something in a street and someone ignored the signs warning them to stay back and ran their car into it. Winslow wasn't my fault; the bullying wasn't my fault; what happened there wasn't on me.

… Maybe if I kept telling myself that, one day I would believe it.

My time in Brockton Bay had taught me much about the bus system and I'd used it to travel most of the city where it still ran, from the Docks, all the way to downtown and beyond. There were only two exceptions.

The first was the Dockyards proper. While the buses still traveled there, it was only at certain times of day or night. The second was to my current destination, Brockton Bays local PRT headquarters.

While the Protectorate Headquarters was visible out in the Bay, that was mostly a waypoint or staging ground for the Protectorate Heroes to have their own space; or to gather when leaving or entering the city. While it did have its own infrastructure and personal, it apparently was just a large workshop/break area/oversight point, a support center.

People like Assault, Battery, Armsmaster, and Velocity could deploy, take breaks, stand watch, or work on gear there far removed from the civilian eye. It also served as a place to keep them safe from villains or to hold them once captured. It was really just a show of force from the Protectorate that they were watching.

Most of the actual heroing started downtown, at the PRT Headquarters. There was were the PRT sent out Troopers, and where they oversaw the city during patrols. How I knew this stuff was only due to large amounts of free time researching things online and checking the PHO Boards.

To be honest, it was kind of obvious when you stopped to think about it ;the Rig was an oil rig. A remodeled one yes, but those things didn't really give much thought to living space, so it was really just for show. Plus, if the Protectorate really did wait there for something to happen outside their patrols, it was practically the furthest point away from the city, and anyone could see when someone was coming or going from it unless they flew.

It was a strange thing to be proud or in awe of really, the only reason the Rig was even put up was because the Bay had one of the highest ratios of capes per capita in the US, which meant that it was put up as a warning that the Protectorate wasn't going to let the villains take over. But if the villains hadn't moved in, the Protectorate wouldn't have needed to build it.

So basically one of the Bays best money makers in terms of sightseeing existed solely because the city was dangerous enough to warrant putting it there.

When my bus showed there weren't enough empty seats for us all, but that was somewhat normal, so I had to hold on to the upper rail for the trip. There were a few benefits to being tall, I guess, didn't change the fact that I didn't like being there in the first place.

Too many people around, too cramped.

The trip wasn't that long though, and there weren't any kids or crying babies on board, just normal people, some in suits, others in casual wear like me.

I filed out with those that shared my stop, lucky that I didn't have to change buses to get where to the PRT HQ was located, even if it did put me on the wrong side of the street and one block away. I joined a small crowd in waiting at the intersection, one of the youngest there I noted. Still, no one gave me a glance as we waited. Maybe they figured that with my height and skinny frame I was older than I looked.

One might expect the headquarters of the PRT to stand out, but it was the same as most of the surrounding buildings; all glass, only with the windows being barred and the PRT logo attached to the front; a shield with wings, containing the letters P.R.T.

There was a number of people entering and exiting the building, and I knew that tours happened often and that they had a gift shop, but it was still more than I expected. Did they work there? Would I pass by a member of the Protectorate and never know it? Or were they just PRT troopers and office workers, heading in and leaving from work?

The stress was building, but as the crosswalk let us go, I steeled myself. I couldn't back down here, I needed to do this, needed to get closure, needed to…

"Not going to run away here too, are you Kiddo?"

… not trip over air and make anyone look at me in the middle of the street.

I keep my eyes forward, hands gripping into fist hard enough that I was sure that I would end up drawing blood from my palms. My eyes darted around as I kept moving, there wasn't anything in front of me, but I couldn't, won't look behind me. That would be letting it win, letting it know that he had gotten to me.

The glass on the building in front of me didn't have a good enough angle to see it, but when I got to the sidewalk it gave me a reason to glance around the area as I turned towards the PRT HQ.

My Doppelganger was sitting on the roof of a car waiting at the light, one leg kicking against the glass on the drivers' side window, the driver of course gave no sign that anything was wrong. It was leaning back, its hands holding onto its raised leg that was bent to sit onto the roof proper, head cocked, and eyes locked on mine. Despite the breeze, not a single black hair was shifted as it sat with a smile.

I would call it a he, as the voice it spoke in sounded more male than anything, but it looked just like me, but I didn't want to call it a she as then it was just one step to calling it a copy of me.

Calling it an it was better for my sanity.

It was the smile more than the eyes that really got to me. The golden glowing eyes were weird sure, but that smile… I couldn't remember when I had last smiled anything like that.

The light changed to green, and the cars began to move down the street. With hair still unaffected by the movement, my not-really-there Double raised its hand up in a wave, its eyes never leaving mine.

"Good luck! Though you won't need it!"

I tracked it for a few moments as it was pulled away before turning away myself. I wasn't crazy, it was perfectly a normal reaction to be a little mentally unbalanced after what I been through, Dr. Rieper had said as much. Research into traumatic experiences had received a boost after it more or less revealed that they could cause Trigger events, so getting diagnosed with borderline PTSD was understandable.

Pity I didn't get the memories or flashbacks of the event, only the unease and a ghost me following me around at random times, saying things that made no sense.

This was one of the reasons I was biting the bullet here. I needed to move on, move forward from what happened. Dad was fully on board, not to say that he had taken days off work, I put an end to that after he tried staying at the hospital with me. There was only so much of overprotective father one could take on top of what I'd been told happened, but he was taking time to talk to me, help cook or go shopping.

Baby steps.

I could have waited, just kept hiding away, doing cape research and homework packets that the school district was sending me as part of the PRT deal that my dad worked out while I was in therapy.

But I managed dark days at Winslow, getting by even then, going to class even while looking over my shoulder practically every moment.

This wasn't going to stop me.

Those entering the lobby of the Brockton Bays local PRT HQ would find a strange juxtaposition at work. On the one hand, you would see the various employees in suits, hurrying in and out of the building, talking in groups about things involving capes in one way or another. Then you would likely spot the four PRT officers, stationed at different areas of the lobby. From what info the PRT gave out about their gear, they wore chain mesh and Kevlar vests, with fully concealing helmets. Each carried a weapon. The standard choice of weapon for the PRT was containment foam, designed by the Tinker Dragon; that alone could the typical parahuman. But some did carry other weapons, like grenade launchers, armed with ammo to fit a variety of threats.

In contrast to this, there was the gift shop that, during the proper hours, would no doubt be thick with youths, looking for the latest of cape action figures, posters, video games, and clothing. Four-foot tall pictures of the various Protectorate and Wards team members were placed at regular intervals around the lobby, each backed by bright colors.

There was a cheery tour guide waiting patiently by the front desk, smiling at anybody who happened to glance her way. I knew from looking it up that on a set schedule, she would introduce tourists, children, and the interested local to the PRT offices, armory, training area and the parking lot with the parahuman containment vans, maybe even catching a glimpse of Armsmasters bike, showing them everything it took to manage the local heroes.

Strangely, there was a line for the group of receptionists at the far end of the lobby, next to the waiting tour guide, some of them looked like everyday people, casual wear. I joined the back of the queue, behind a heavy-set man with a faded jacket. This seemed common enough, as the trio of receptionists were talking to the people in line at a turn, some even presented papers.

Time passed both quickly and not at all, I used it to people watch, wondering who each one entering or exiting was, what were they doing? Working? On what? What would the average day working at the PRT mean?

And all too soon, I was next.

My receptionist was somewhat young, it was hard to tell with her makeup. It was the type that I wished I could pull off, drawing attention to her face without covering everything up or seeming to be underwhelming. Her blue eyes glanced to me for a moment with a small smile, the kind that said that she was there, but not really there, all the while clicking away at the keyboard in front of her.

"Yes, how can I help you?"

"… Taylor Hebert, I have an appointment?" I phrased it as a question, as I didn't really know if I did. They had said I could just show up and they would receive me, they didn't tell me if there was anything special I needed to do.

Maybe I needed to present ID? I was also worried that she knew the name, but there was no reaction to it.

Whatever my worries, the receptionist didn't share them. The typing paused for a minute as she did something to the computer in front of her. Tense several seconds followed, for me at least.

"Yes, I have you right here," I let a breath of relief go. "Let me just print you out a guest ID badge and call an officer to escort you up."

She didn't seem at that surprised really; were appointments common at the PRT?

"Does this happen often? People just showing up with an appointment?" I just couldn't help myself.

The receptionist gave a smile, better than the last one. "The PRT deals with more than just capturing villains, in a way, we're also like a special brand of cop. People sometimes show up to give testimonies or report something Parahuman related, it's common enough."

Which was to say that it didn't happen every day, nor would she know why I was here. Still, I took the offered badge with the best smile I felt I could muster.

It was probably more of a grimace from how I felt, she gave no reaction to that either, so I didn't know.

"If you could just wait for a moment by the elevators there," here, she pointed at a bank of said elevators past and to the sides of the counter. "An officer will be down shortly to guide you."

"Thanks." At this, she gave a more honest smile. If the PRT covered more than just grabbing villains, then she was like customer service.

I might have been one of the easiest people she'd deal with all day.

There were four elevators and not a seat nearby, so I was forced to stand. The PRT officer standing by the bank of elevators seemed to give me a glance, it was hard to tell with the helmet, before seemingly disregarding me. Conversation wasn't my forte, and I didn't want to disturb the guard, so I waited. Standing.

But not for as long as I thought I would.

One of the elevators dinged and opened up, revealing an unarmed PRT officer.

"Miss Hebert?" he asked as he stepped out. I nodded.

"This way please." With that he stepped to the side and gestured towards the open elevator, clearly wanting me to go first.

I stepped past him, hesitating only for a moment at the entryway, before stepping inside.

The doors shut with barely a whisper, and if it wasn't for the fact that the red numbers were moving on the screen over the door, I would have thought that we weren't moving. Tinker-Tech, clearly. At any other time I would have been all over it, Tinker tech was quite simply amazing at times, but now, here?

All I could think was, 'are those containment foam sprayer nozzles embedded in the walls?'

Several moments of silence passed, me unwilling to speak, and the PRT officer seemingly not wanting to, until the doors opened once more.

"Follow me, please."

The way the officer phrased the request stated that it really wasn't a request.

We stepped into a generic lobby space, an empty receptionist desk in front of us. The officer swiftly moved forward, bypassing the desk and holding a door open for me. Beyond was another blank hallway, doors lining either side up and down it at steady intervals. I noticed that none of them had labels on them besides a number, but my guide seemed to know his way.

Room five, right-hand side of the hall. Inside was an interrogation room, and I meant that literally. Everything about it, from the camera mounted in the corner, the glass lining one wall, even to the placement of the chairs and table, right in the middle of the room, fit every TV show and movie that showed one to a tee.

The only reason I didn't back straight out was the fact that the chairs were padded, the table made of wood, and the walls were painted a soft blue color.

"I know, that's everyone's first reaction," the PRT officer said to me, chuckling, clearly having spotted my panic. "One way to lower construction costs, use the same floor plan and rooms over and over again. It's fine, the doors handle is cheap too, it doesn't even have a lock and the door itself is made of wood. You're not in trouble kid, I wouldn't be unarmed if you were."

The rattling of the ten-dollar doorknob and the hollow-sounding echo of wood against fist did wonders for my nerves.

"Might have warned me first," I spat back. He only chuckled more.

"It relaxed you didn't? I could feel you winding up downstairs."

… as much as I hated to admit it, but he was right. The breath that left my body following his explanation had loosened my shoulders up, and I noticed now that he and I were almost the same height. Before he and the other troopers had seemed so tall, had I really been curling up on myself that much?

"The agent will be with you shortly," the jerk told me when he finished chuckling. "Can I get you some water?"

I shook my head no. Was this really a member of the Protectorate Response Team? What was next, a hole in my cup so that when I drank it spilled into my lap? I had dealt with enough of that at school, thank you very much.

"Well then, no hard feelings Ms. Hebert, and please stay in the room for now. Restrooms are further down the hall if you need them but try not to wander. It should be just a few more minutes."

And with that, the officer closed the door, leaving me.

Alone.

In what amounted to an interrogation room after I singlehandedly destroyed Winslow High, causing many injuries and several deaths.

… well, I did want to get this all over with.


A/N: Taylor didn't know about Trigger events, but the way Purity just found a researcher in Harvard talking about government and private researches like it was nothing. So this could just be a mistake on Wildbows part as some pointed out (or just a reason to have the info provided to the readers, as it didn't seem like something everyone knew about unless you actually went looking for it).

On the other hand, Taylor kinda had her hands full, she needed to make her costume, survive at school, do what homework she could, and prepare for her step into the world of capes; and even before she Triggered, it was unlikely the average person would just go looking for that info about Triggers, as it's not something that most people would really need in their day-to-day lives, so it's understandable that she didn't know about it.

So it is likely that she never looked at what made a cape, prioritizing just capes and what she needed to know about being one in general after she Triggered and started making plans.

But here, she had a lot more free time, so… yeah, more cape research for her.

Also, for the record, there is going to be five more arcs before things really start to Take Off.

… which means that I'm somewhat following Warframes own model of having a five-year tutorial.

Firewalker after this (plans are made), then Redirection (plans are foiled and captured), then Battering Maneuver (people are killed/almost killed and a mongoose is let loose), then Calculated Spring (which is just a bunch of interludes really), then…

Continuity (Water, and lots of it).

After that the Worm plot gets kicked in the face with a pink Rhino with Titania animations.